The Year's Best SF 11 # 1993

by Gardner Dozois (ed)

I was shoving a sweet old ’53 Desoto. It had a good bit under the bonnet, but the suspension would make a grown man cry. It was a beautiful beast, though. Once you got up to speed, that front end would track like a cat. The upholstery was like brand-new. The radio worked. There wasn’t a scratch or ding on it. I had myself a banker’s car, and there I was, only nineteen.

  “We may want to loiter,” Jesse told me. “Plan on a couple of overnights.”

  I had a job, but told myself that I was due for a vacation; and so screw it. Brother Jesse put down food for the tabbies and whistled up the dogs. Potato hopped into the backseat in his large, dumb way. He looked expectant. Chip sort of hesitated. He made a couple of jumps straight up, then backed down and started barking. Jesse scooped him up and shoved him in with old Potato dog.

  “The upholstery,” I hollered. It was the first time I ever stood up to Jesse.

  Jesse got an old piece of tarp to put under the dogs. “Pee, and you’re a goner,” he told Potato.

  We drove steady through the early-summer morning. The Desoto hung in around eighty, which was no more than you’d want, considering the suspension. Rangeland gave way to cropland. The radio plugged away with western music, beef prices, and an occasional preacher saying, “Grace” and “Gimmie.” Highway 2 rolled straight ahead, sometimes rising gradual, so that cars appeared like rapid running spooks out of the blind entries. There’d be a little flash of sunlight from a windshield. Then a car would appear over the rise, and usually it was wailing.

  We came across a hell of a wreck just beyond Havre. A new Mercury station wagon rolled about fifteen times across the landscape. There were two nice-dressed people and two children. Not one of them ever stood a chance. They rattled like dice in a drum. I didn’t want to see what I was looking at.

  Bad wrecks always made me sick, but not sick to puking. That would not have been manly. I prayed for those people under my breath and got all shaky. We pulled into a crossroads bar for a sandwich and a beer. The dogs hopped out. Plenty of hubcaps were nailed on the wall of the bar. We took a couple of them down and filled them with water from an outside tap. The dogs drank and peed.

  “I’ve attended a couple myself,” Brother Jesse said about the wreck. “Drove a Terraplane off a bridge back in ’53. Damn near drownded.” Jesse wasn’t about to admit to feeling bad. He just turned thoughtful.

  “This here is a big territory,” he said to no one in particular. “But you can get across her if you hustle. I reckon that Merc was loaded wrong, or blew a tire.” Beyond the windows of the bar, eight metal crosses lined the highway. Somebody had tied red plastic roses on one of them. Another one had plastic violets and forget-me-nots.

  We lingered a little. Jesse talked to the guy at the bar, and I ran a rack at the pool table. Then Jesse bought a six-pack while I headed for the can. Since it was still early in the day, the can was clean; all the last night’s pee and spit mopped from the floor. Somebody had just painted the walls. There wasn’t a thing written on them, except that Road Dog had signed in.

  Road Dog

  How are things in Glocca Mora?

  His script was spidery and perfect, like an artist who drew a signature. I touched the paint, and it was still tacky. We had missed The Dog by only a few minutes.

  * * *

  Road Dog was like Jesse in a way. Nobody could say exactly when he first showed up, but one day he was there. We started seeing the name “Road Dog” written in what Matt Simons called “a fine Spencerian hand.” There was always a message attached, and Matt called them “cryptic.” The signature and messages flashed from the walls of cans in bars, truck stops, and roadside cafés through four states.

  We didn’t know Road Dog’s route at first. Most guys were tied to work or home or laziness. In a year or two, though, Road Dog’s trail got mapped. His fine hand showed up all along Highway 2, trailed east into North Dakota, dropped south through South Dakota, then ran back west across Wyoming. He popped north through Missoula and climbed the state until he connected with Highway 2 again. Road Dog, whoever he was, ran a constant square of road that covered roughly two thousand miles.

  Sam Winder claimed Road Dog was a Communist who taught social studies at U. of Montana. “Because,” Sam claimed, “that kind of writing comes from Europe. That writing ain’t U.S.A.”

  Mike Tarbush figured Road Dog was a retired cartoonist from a newspaper. He figured nobody could spot The Dog, because The Dog slipped past us in a Nash, or some other old-granny car.

  Brother Jesse suggested that Road Dog was a truck driver, or maybe a gypsy, but sounded like he knew better.

  Matt Simons supposed Road Dog was a traveling salesman with a flair for advertising. Matt based his notion on one of the cryptic messages:

  Road Dog

  Ringling Bros. Barnum and Toothpaste

  I didn’t figure anything. Road Dog stood in my imagination as the heart and soul of Highway 2. When night was deep and engines blazed, I could hang over the wheel and run down that tunnel of two-lane into the night.

  The nighttime road is different than any other thing. Ghosts rise around the metal crosses, and ghosts hitchhike along the wide berm. All the mysteries of the world seem normal after dark. If imagination shows dead thumbs aching for a ride, those dead folk only prove the hot and spermy goodness of life. I’d overtake some taillights, grab the other lane, and blow doors off some partygoer who tried to stay out of the ditches. A man can sing and cuss and pray. The miles fill with dreams of power, and women, and happy, happy times.

  Road Dog seemed part of that romance. He was the very soul of mystery, a guy who looked at the dark heart of the road and still flew free enough to make jokes and write that fine hand.

  In daytime, it was different, though. When I saw Road Dog signed in on the wall of that can, it just seemed like a real bad sign.

  * * *

  The guy who owned the bar had seen no one. He claimed he’d been in the back room putting bottles in his cold case. The Dog had come and gone like a spirit.

  Jesse and I stood in the parking lot outside the bar. Sunlight laid earthy and hot across the new crops. A little puff of dust rose from a side road. It advanced real slow, so you could tell it was a farm tractor. All around us, meadowlarks and tanagers were whooping it up.

  “We’ll likely pass him,” Jesse said, “if we crowd a little.” Jesse pretended he didn’t care, but anyone would. We loaded the dogs, and even hung the hubcaps back up where we got them, because it was what a gentleman would do. The Desoto acted as eager as any Desoto could. We pushed the top end, which was eighty-nine, and maybe ninety-two downhill. At that speed, brakes don’t give you much, so you’d better trust your steering and your tires.

  If we passed The Dog, we didn’t know it. He might have parked in one of the towns, and of course we dropped a lot of revs passing through towns, that being neighborly. What with a little loafing, some pee stops, and general fooling around, we did not hit Minneapolis until a little after midnight. When we checked into a motel on the strip, Potato was sleepy and grumpy. Chip looked relieved.

  “Don’t fall in love with that bed,” Jesse told me. “Some damn salesman is out there waitin’ to do us in. It pays to start early.”

  Car shopping with Jesse turned out as fascinating as anybody could expect. At 7:00 A.M., we cruised the lots. Cars stood in silent rows like advertising men lined up for group pictures. It being Minneapolis, we saw a lot of high-priced iron. Cadillacs and Packards and Lincolns sat beside Buick convertibles, hemi Chryslers, and Corvettes (“Nice c’hars,” Jesse said about the Corvettes, “but no room to ’em. You couldn’t carry more than one sack of feed.”). Hudsons and Studebakers hunched along the back rows. On one lot was something called “Classic Lane.” A Model A stood beside a ’37 International pickup. An L29 Cord sat like a tombstone, which it was, because it had no engine. But, glory be, beside the Cord nestled a ’39 LaSalle coupe just sparkling with threat. That LaSalle might have snookered Jesse, except something highly talented
sat buried deep in the lot.

  It was the last of the fast and elegant Lincolns, a ’54 coupe as snarly as any man could want. The ’53 model had taken the Mexican Road Race. The ’54 was a refinement. After that the marque went downhill. It started building cars for businessmen and rich grannies.

  Jesse walked round and round the Lincoln, which looked like it was used to being cherished. Matchless and scratchless. It was a little less than fire engine red, with a white roof and a grille that could shrug off a cow. That Linc was a solid set of fixings. Jesse got soft lights in his eyes. This was no Miss Molly, but this was Miss somebody. There were a lot of crap-crates running out there, but this Linc wasn’t one of them.

  “You prob’ly can’t even get parts for the damn thing.” Jesse murmured, and you could tell he was already scrapping with a salesman. He turned his back on the Lincoln. “We’ll catch a bite to eat,” he said. “This may take a couple days.”

  I felt sort of bubbly. “The Dog ain’t gonna like this,” I told Jesse.

  “The Dog is gonna love it,” he said. “Me and The Dog knows that road.”

  By the time the car lots opened at 9:00 A.M., Jesse had a trader’s light in his eyes. About all that needs saying is that never before, or since, did I ever see a used-car salesman cry.

  The poor fellow never had a chance. He stood in his car lot most of the day while me and Jesse went through every car lot on the strip. We waved to him from a sweet little ’57 Cad, and we cruised past real smooth in a mama-san ’56 Imperial. We kicked tires on anything sturdy while he was watching, and we never even got to his lot until fifteen minutes before closing. Jesse and I climbed from my Desoto. Potato and Chip tailed after us.

  “I always know when I get to Minneapolis,” Jesse said to me, but loud enough the salesman could just about hear. “My woman wants to lay a farmer, and my dogs start pukin’.” When we got within easy hearing range, Jesse’s voice got humble. “I expect this fella can help a cowboy in a fix.”

  I followed, experiencing considerable admiration. In two sentences, Jesse had his man confused.

  Potato was dumb enough that he trotted right up to the Lincoln. Chip sat and panted, pretending indifference. Then he ambled over to a ragged-out Pontiac and peed on the tire. “I must be missing something,” Jesse said to the salesman, “because that dog has himself a dandy nose.” He looked at the Pontiac. “This thing got an engine?”

  We all conversed for the best part of an hour. Jesse refused to even look at the Lincoln. He sounded real serious about the LaSalle, to the point of running it around a couple of blocks. It was a darling. It had ceramic covered manifolds to protect against heat and rust. It packed a long-stroke V-8 with enough torque to bite rubber in second gear. My Desoto was a pretty thing, but until that LaSalle, I never realized that my car was a total pussycat. When we left the lot, the salesman looked sad. He was late for supper.

  “Stay with what you’ve got,” Jesse told me as he climbed in my Desoto. “The clock has run out on that LaSalle. Let a collector have it. I hate it when something good dies for lack of parts.”

  I wondered if he was thinking of Miss Molly.

  “Because,” Jesse said, and kicked the tire on a silly little Volkswagen, “the great, good cars are dying. I blame it on the Germans.”

  Next day, we bought the Lincoln and made the salesman feel like one proud pup. He figured he foisted something off on Jesse that Jesse didn’t want. He was so stuck on himself that he forgot that he had asked a thousand dollars, and come away with $550. He even forgot that his eyes were swollen, and that maybe he crapped his pants.

  We went for a test drive, but only after Jesse and I crawled around under the Linc. A little body lead lumped in the left rear fender, but the front end stood sound. Nobody had pumped any sawdust into the differential. We found no water in the oil, or oil in the water. The salesman stood around, admiring his shoeshine. He was one of those easterners who can’t help talking down to people, especially when he’s trying to be nice. I swear he wore a white tie with little red ducks on it. That Minnesota sunlight made his red hair blond, and his face pop with freckles.

  Jesse drove real quiet until he found an interesting stretch of road. The salesman sat beside him. Me and Potato and Chip hunkered in the backseat. Chip looked sort of nauseated, but Potato was pretty happy.

  “I’m afraid,” Jesse said regretful, “that this thing is gonna turn out to be a howler. A fella gets a few years on him, and he don’t want a screamy car.” Brother Jesse couldn’t have been much more than thirty, but he tugged on his nose and ears like he was ancient. “I sure hope,” he said real mournful, “that nobody stuck a boot in any of these here tires.” Then he poured on some coal.

  There was a most satisfying screech. That Linc took out like a roadrunner in heat. The salesman’s head snapped backward, and his shoulders dug into the seat. Potato gave a happy, happy woof and stuck his nose out the open window. I felt like yelling, “Hosanna,” but knew enough to keep my big mouth shut. The Linc shrugged off a couple of cars that were conservatively motoring. It wheeled past a hay truck as the tires started humming. The salesman’s freckles began to stand up like warts while the airstream howled. Old Potato kept his nose sticking through the open window, and the wind kept drying it. Potato was so damn dumb he tried to lick it wet while his nose stayed in the airstream. His tongue blew sideways.

  “It ain’t nothing but speed,” Jesse complained. “Look at this here steering.” He joggled the wheel considerable, which at ninety got even more considerable. The salesman’s tie blew straight backward. The little red ducks matched his freckles. “Jee-sus-Chee-sus,” he said. “Eight hundred, and slow down.” He braced himself against the dash.

  When it hit the century mark, the Linc developed a little float in the front end. I expect all of us were thinking about the tires.

  You could tell Jesse was jubilant. The Linc still had some pedal left.

  “I’m gettin’ old,” Jesse hollered above the wind. “This ain’t no car for an old man.”

  “Seven hundred,” the salesman said. “And Mother of God, slow it down.”

  “Five-fifty,” Jesse told him, and dug the pedal down one more notch.

  “You got it,” the salesman hollered. His face twisted up real teary. Then Potato got all grateful and started licking the guy on the back of the neck.

  So Jesse cut the speed and bought the Linc. He did it diplomatic, pretending he was sorry he’d made the offer. That was kind of him. After all, the guy was nothing but a used-car salesman.

  * * *

  We did a second night in that motel. The Linc and Desoto sat in an all-night filling station. Lube, oil change, and wash, because we were riding high. Jesse had a heap of money left over. In the morning, we got new jeans and shirts, so as to ride along like gentlemen.

  “We’ll go back through South Dakota,” Jesse told me. “There’s a place I’ve heard about.”

  “What are we looking for?”

  “We’re checking on The Dog,” Jesse told me, and would say no more.

  We eased west to Bowman, just under the North Dakota line. Jesse sort of leaned into it, just taking joy from the whole occasion. I flowed along as best the Desoto could. Potato rode with Jesse, and Chip sat on the front seat beside me. Chip seemed rather easier in his mind.

  A roadside café hunkered among tall trees. It didn’t even have a neon sign. Real old-fashioned.

  “I heard of this place all my life,” Jesse said as he climbed from the Linc. “This here is the only outhouse in the world with a guest registry.” He headed toward the rear of the café.

  I tailed along, and Jesse, he was right. It was a palatial privy built like a little cottage. The men’s side was a three-holer. There was enough room for a stand-up desk. On the desk was one of those old-fashioned business ledgers like you used to see in banks.

  “They’re supposed to have a slew of these inside,” Jesse said about the register as he flipped pages. “All the way back to the
early days.”

  Some spirit of politeness seemed to take over when you picked up that register. There was hardly any bad talk. I read a few entries:

  On this site, May 16th, 1961, James John Johnson (John-John) cussed hell out of his truck.

  I came, I saw, I kinda liked it.—Bill Samuels, Tulsa

  This place does know squat.—Pauley Smith, Ogden

  This South Dakota ain’t so bad,

  but I sure got the blues,

  I’m working in Tacoma,

  ’cause my kids all need new shoes.—Sad George

  Brother Jesse flipped through the pages. “I’m even told,” he said, “that Teddy Roosevelt crapped here. This is a fine old place.” He sort of hummed as he flipped. “Uh, huh,” he said, “The Dog done made his pee spot.” He pointed to a page:

  Road Dog

  Run and run as fast as you can

  you can’t catch me—I’m the Gingerbread Man.

  Jesse just grinned. “He’s sorta upping the ante, ain’t he? You reckon this is getting serious?” Jesse acted like he knew what he was talking about, but I sure didn’t.

  II

  We didn’t know, as we headed home, that Jesse’s graveyard business was about to take off. That wouldn’t change him, though. He’d almost always had a hundred dollars in his jeans anyway, and was usually a happy man. What changed him was Road Dog and Miss Molly.

  The trouble started awhile after we crossed the Montana line. Jesse ran ahead in the Lincoln, and I tagged behind in my Desoto. We drove Highway 2 into a western sunset. It was one of those magic summers where rain sweeps in from British Columbia just regular enough to keep things growing. Rabbits get fat and foolish, and foxes put on weight. Rattlesnakes come out of ditches to cross the sun-hot road. It’s not sporting to run over their middles. You have to take them in the head. Redwings perch on fence posts, and magpies flash black and white from the berm, where they scavenge road kills.

  We saw a hell of a wreck just after Wolf Point. A guy in an old Kaiser came over the back of a rise and ran under a tanker truck that burned. Smoke rose black as a plume of crows, and we saw it five miles away. By the time we got there, the truck driver stood in the middle of the road, all white and shaking. The guy in the Kaiser sat behind the wheel. It was fearful to see how fast fire can work, and just terrifying to see bones hanging over a steering wheel. I remember thinking the guy no doubt died before any fire started, and we were feeling more than he was.